Fanservice
by Lampito
Summary: The thought of crazy fangirls tearing your clothes off is creepy enough - when your clothes start tearing themselves off, it's officially gotten weird, even by Winchester standards.  Even Hasselhoff Disease would be better than this.  COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

This was dictated by the plot bunny that was hopping about after I finished 'The Way Of Things'. I thought it was going to be a really short one-shot, but apparently the bunnies have other ideas. I thought I'd just put up a chapter to placate them. Later, I'll see if another one of those furry little bastards tries to bite me on the arse and prompts me to continue it.

**DISCLAIMER:** None of it is mine, not even the towels. Especially not the towels.

**TITLE:** Fanservice

**RATING:** T. I mean, read the title, people.

**SUMMARY:** The thought of crazy fangirls tearing your clothes off is creepy enough - when your clothes start tearing themselves off, it's officially gotten weird, even by Winchester standards. Even Hasselhoff Disease would be better than this.

**BLAME:** Lies entirely with the Denizens of the Jimiverse who are all OBSESSED with G.W.N. (that's Gratuitous Winchester Nudity). You need to get help. Or possibly high def TVs. With frame by frame replay. Maybe laminated posters.

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><p><strong>Chapter 1<strong>

It started on a Thursday, but that was purely coincidental.

The first hint that something might be wrong popped up as Sam came out of the shower, shirtless but wearing his jeans, and scrubbing vigorously at his hair with a towel.

"Gah!" he complained, "Guts! Why did the damned thing have to explode?" He hitched his jeans up, and continued scrubbing. "I've washed my hair three times now, and I still don't think it's properly clean."

"I did warn you, bro," said Dean around a mouthful of cold pizza, "Stand back, I said, this could get messy, I said."

"Yeah, well, there's messy, and there's _messy_," Sam grumbled, pulling a face as he picked a bit of _yuck _out of his hair, and hitched his pants into place. "You never warned me it was going to explode!"

"I didn't _know_ it was going to explode!" Dean defended himself, "You were there, when Bobby brewed the stuff up. 'Be careful, ya idjits', were his exact words, 'I've had to use some dried horehound and dogtooth, because they're all I've got, and dried herbs can sometimes pack more punch than the fresh stuff'…"

"Well, you shouldn't have sprayed so much of it around," Sam was not in a mood to be placated. "If you'd used less, maybe it would just have shrivelled away tidily." He tugged irritably at the waistband of his pants.

"Or, it might just have gotten angry, and shot its quills at you," countered Dean, being annoying by being reasonable for a change. It was a new strategy, one he'd picked up from Sam, and he resolved to use it more often. "Better to O.D. it than not affect it at all."

"That's easy for you to say," sniped Sam, hitching at his pants again, "You're not the one who got covered with its guts when it exploded!"

"Well, I'm not the one who insists on wearing girly-hair," replied Dean. "Stop being so prissy. It was a successful Hunt. Bobby's killer brew worked, the Mutant Demonic Giant Soul-Eating Six-Legged Porcupine is dead, the carcass took care of itself, my baby bro didn't get his ass shot full of its quills, I'm calling that in as a win." He pulled a face. "Jeez, bro, pull your pants up, they fall any further down and I'll be lookin' at your junk, and nobody needs that over cold pizza."

"I thought the damned thing was just a joke that Bobby made up." Sam threw the towel onto his bed, and yanked up his trousers. "This is ridiculous," he declared, "It's like they've stretched overnight. The damned towel was doing the same thing in the bathroom..." Once again, his jeans slid down until they were barely resting on his hips. "Somebody's abducted my jeans, and left me with low riders. Fucking great."

"It's all that salad and healthy crap you eat, Sam," suggested Dean, pushing the pizza box towards him. "You're losing weight."

"I was wearing these yesterday," Sam pointed out, hitching at the offending garment once more, only to have them slide down past his hipbones again. "It's not possible for me to have lost that much weight in the space of less than twelve hours. Not without some serious gastrointestinal disease, anyway."

"Or maybe somebody's put a Homeboy curse on you," Dean waved his pizza slice expansively, "And you are now doomed to sag your pants. Bro. Or should I call you m'nigga now?"

Sam scowled at Dean, and fished a belt out of his bag. "Call me whatever you like, just don't call me late for breakfast. I am NOT eating cold pizza."

"It'll put hair on your chest," Dean told him, "And some meat on your ass. Hold your pants up."

"Jerk," muttered Sam, threading the belt into place and cinching it. "Come on, I want some… oh, for fuck's sake!" In spite of the belt, his jeans slid determinedly southwards. "I give up," he rolled his eyes, and reached for a cleanish shirt.

"It's just a manifestation of your repressed exhibitionist tendencies, bro, I mean, m'nigga," smirked Dean. "If you're going to stick with the Homeboy look, you might want to consider some manscaping, I'm told that they use a kind of wax that hardly hurts at all..."

Sam pulled his shirt over his head. "Next time we are up against a Mutant Demonic Giant Soul-EaAAAAIE!" Dean turned around in time to be hit in the face with his brother's shirt."

"Dude, what the hell?" he scowled, throwing the shirt back at Sam. "If you're on your man-period, go take some Midol and eat some chocolate cookies, I don't want to deal with your hissy fit."

"I didn't do anything!" protested Sam.

"Yeah, right," sneered Dean, "It just threw itself at me."

"Actually, yeah, I think it did," Sam agreed, sounding bewildered.

"In that case, it's probably time to do some laundry, if your clothes are moving around by themseEEEEEEEEP!" Dean's eyes bugged as widely as Sam's when his little brother's shirt kind of, well, bounced back off as soon as Sam slid it on.

"What the hell...?" Sam stared at his shirt, then tried again... it whipped itself up and over his head, and fluttered to the bed.

"Okaaaaay, shirt wants a day off," mumbled Sam, bemused. He grabbed another shirt, pulled that one on – and the same thing happened. He looked at his big brother, at a loss. "Er, officially weirded out here, now."

"Try putting your arms down," suggested Dean. Sam did, donning the shirt quickly, and clamping his arms to his sides.

The shirt tore down the seams as it flung itself off him.

"Right, so," mused Dean, "We have jeans that keep falling down, and shirts that keep falling... up."

"It is kind of unusual behaviour for clothes," said Sam slowly.

"Could it be a side-effect of getting Mutant Demonic Giant Soul-Eating Six-Legged Porcupine guts on them?" asked Dean.

"That might explain the jeans, but not three different shirts," Sam humphed, He wiggled, and hitched optimistically at his pants. "This is kind of annoying," he noted.

"Well, it could be worse, bro," smirked Dean, "At least you got the carcass to carry it off."

"I cannot 'carry it off' in public if my pants keep trying to fall off and my shirt won't stay on!" Sam complained. "This is ridiculous. Not to mention bordering on indecent."

"Okay, well, we'll give Bobby a call, then head for his place, work this out," Dean placated him. "You'll have to put your jacket on, or something..."

"Are you kidding?" Sam burst out, "I'm not wearing a jacket with no shirt on! I'll look like a total dick!"

"Never mind, baby bro," grinned Dean, "We'll tell people you've got Hasselhoff Disease."

"So not funny," scowled Sam, reaching for his jacket.

Unfortunately, it just about dislocated both his shoulders as it leapt off him.

"OW!" he yelped. "Well, I guess that even dickdom isn't an option."

"We'll just have to improvise," shrugged Dean. "Pack your stuff, and we'll hit the road."

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><p>Reviews are the Extremely Thin Towel Hanging Precariously from the Winchester Of Your Choice Of Life!<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

It's taking on a life of its own - why do these damned stories do this? Why? WHY? *shakes fist up at sky, then down at plot bunnies*

I've fixed the spelling on the n-word in Chapter 1 (thanks to PaulatheCat for pointing out my gaffe; if nobody tells me, I'll never learn) - Down Here, it doesn't have the sort of cultural baggage that I think it must (for sound reason) carry in the YouSay, athough it would be considered offensive if used. (We have our own unacceptable words for the native population that are similarly obscene, and use of them instantly tags the user as a pig-ignorant bigot.) I hope nobody was offended, and if you were, I can only plead ignorance, and promise to do better next time. Perhaps we can blame Merkin Cultural Imperialism: I frequently hear the phrase 'Sup m'nigga?" used in the street. By boys. Twelve year old boys. Twelve year old white boys. Twelve year old white boys with their underwear clearly visible above the sagging waistband of their trousers. Grud, I HATE that. I want to shout at them, "I CAN SEE YOUR UNDERWEAR!" I think this bloke, 'General' Larry Platt, put it best: httpCOLONSLASHSLASH wwwDOT youtubeDOT com/watch?v=tMwhl4IrPNc

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><p><strong>Chapter 2<strong>

"You did this on purpose," Sam accused his brother. He sat in shotgun, wrapped in a blanket that Dean had picked up from a Goodwill store. It was fluffy. It was sky blue. It had duckies on it. Some of the duckies held balloons.

"It was all they had, bro," Dean defended his choice, "I asked. People don't think to donate blankets when the weather isn't cold." The whole 'being annoying by being reasonable' thing had much to recommend it.

"Anything would be better than this!" hissed Sam.

"Well, your other option was a velour throw, with The Hoff on it," Dean told him. "In his shorts. Cuddling a tiger."

Sam blanched. "I think I just threw up in my mouth a little," he squeaked, huddling into his duckies.

He refused to get out of the car for breakfast. By mid-afternoon, the tank was getting low, and Dean's stomach was rumbling.

"We have to stop," Dean insisted. "My Baby is hungry, I'm hungry, and that gigantic Sasquatch body has to be hungry too."

"So, find us a drive-through," replied Sam tersely.

"There isn't one," Dean pointed out, nodding at a sign, "But there's a roadhouse up ahead."

"I'm not getting out of the car!" Sam reiterated.

"Fine, you can sit here and go hungry, it's up to you. Ducky." Dean pulled off the road, parked, and stepped out of the car. "It's practically empty," he reported, scanning the place through the large windows. "Come on, Hiawatha."

"I so hate you," mumbled Sam, clutching his blanket.

The waitress gave them a sidelong look as she took their order. "Don't mind him," Dean told her, Killer Smile blinding, "He has Doingo Syndrome."

"Um, I've never heard of that," she said doubtfully.

"It means he has an anxiety disorder," Dean went on, warming to his theme, ignoring Sam's furious Bitchface #10™ (Tonight, You Die In Your Sleep) burning into him. "He thinks he looks repulsive, but he's getting therapy for it, and part of the treatment involves going out without a shirt on, but he has the blanket so he doesn't get too overwhelmed. He's good, he's on medication."

The waitress smiled at Sam, and he gave her a sheepish little smile back. "Well, for what it's worth," she told him, grinning, "I don't think you have anything to worry about. And I'm happy to have you shirtless on my shift!" She winked as she left.

"My revenge will be terrible," muttered Sam, "You will not see it coming, and you will curse the day you ever heard of Doingo Syndrome…"

Their waitress must've blabbed, because the waitresses took it upon themselves to assist with Sam's 'therapy' – a different giggling girl came to their table each time, making reassuring comments about how he had nothing to worry about, and that, clothed or shirtless, he was just fine by them. He gave them tortured smiles, and thanked them for their concern.

"That's so sweet," sighed Dean, "They just want you to feel better about yourself…"

"If you don't shut up and stop laughing at me, I will gut you with a spoon," grumped Sam.

Dean looked at him seriously. "I'm not laughing," he said, straight-faced, "This is actually no laughing matter…."

"Damn right it isn't."

"…Because it's not funny for the thousands of men who suffer the tragic effects of Doingo Syndrome, it cripples them, undermines their confidence, destroys their lives – I blame women's magazines, giving people unrealistic expectations about what they should look like…"

"Shut up, Dean."

"You gotta learn to love the skin you're in, bro, it's what's inside that counts, no matter how repulsive you are on the outside – you know I love you just as you are."

"Jerk."

Sam was finishing his coffee when he felt a small tug on his blanket. He looked down to see two earnest eyes look up at him from under a mass of curly blonde hair. "I like your blankie," the small girl told him.

"Er, thanks," he stuttered. "I, um, like it too," he added, as she seemed to expect something more.

"I had a blankie," she told him, as if offering information of great import, "It had ducks on it. But it was green."

"Really? Wow. That sounds like a cool blankie," he said, smiling a little desperately.

"Mommy put my blankie away," she continued a little wistfully, "She said I'm too big for a blankie now." She looked him up and down critically, in a way that would probably be detrimental to a patient with Doingo Syndrome. "You're big."

"Er, yeah, I guess so." agreed Sam, scowling at Dean, who was openly giggling.

"You're probably too big for a blankie too, you know," she said accusingly.

"Um… well…" Sam had no idea why he felt compelled to defend himself to a four-year-old. "When you get to be as big as me, you can decide for yourself whether you want a blankie or not."

"Really?" Her eyes grew wide, then narrowed in suspicion. "Why do you need a blankie anyway?"

"It's okay, sweetie," Dean cut in smoothly, "He has a… condition. He's sick. In his head. And, the blankie will make him better!"

She didn't look completely convinced, but nodded. "I hope you get better soon," she said.

"Yeah, me too," Sam grinned a little desperately, as a mortified woman's voice rang across the diner.

"Emily! Emily! You come away from there, and stop pestering that man!" The woman's eyes shot them a look of apology mixed with confusion.

"It's okay, Mommy," called the child brightly, in that loud voice that small children use to convey inappropriate information in public places, "He's big, but he's sick in the head, so he's allowed to have a blankie."

Dean dropped his head to the table, and wheezed with stifled laughter.

"Kill me now," sighed Sam. He finished his coffee, and rose. "I'll meet you out at the car," he announced, "And I'm not getting out again until we stop." He drew his blanket around himself, and headed for the restroom, with as much dignity as a man in a fluffy blue ducky blankie can manage.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Sam didn't want to stop, but in the end they didn't really have a choice: the weather was deteriorating, and they were both tired – the Hunt for the Mutant Demonic Giant Soul-Eating Six-Legged Porcupine had been a tough one, so in the end they pulled into a motel of their preferred cruddy standard.

"At least we have confirmation that it wasn't just the towels in the other place," Sam called gloomily from the bathroom as he surveyed his reflection in the mirror; the towel he'd wrapped around himself barely clung to his hips, threatening to go south no matter how high or tightly he wrapped it.

"So, you're not imagining it," Dean agreed, "Which is helpful to know, seeing as many doctors won't even acknowledge that Doingo Disease is a real illness, and…"

"Dean! Shut! Up!" An angry, shaggy head appeared around the door, glaring daggers.

Dean held up his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay," he placated, "Calm down. Tomorrow, we'll hit Bobby's and pick his brain. You know," he went on, "I always hoped that one day we'd get a job that involved strippers. I just never thought it would be my own baby brother."

Sam reappeared, clutching the waistband of his sweatpants, which seemed seemed as equally determined to escape as his jeans. "It's really annoying," he complained, "I can't even brush my teeth without worrying that I'm about to flash myself."

"I'm wondering if it's some bizarre manifestation of an unconscious desire to take your pants off," Dean ruminated. "You know, that freaky brain of yours, it's been capable of some freaky stuff before. Maybe this is another aspect of that."

Sam cocked an eyebrow doubtfully. "So, I was fed demon blood as a baby, and now, instead of visions, or freaky powers, I've got… spontaneously self-removing trousers?" He frowned. "Call me unimaginative, but I'm having trouble seeing how that was supposed to help me be the ruthless leader of the Armies Of Hell."

"Well, who knows how demons' minds really work?" shrugged Dean. "It might be an inspirational thing. You were supposed to do it during your speeches, rallying your troops. 'We will take our rage, we will take our hatred, we will storm the Gates of Heaven and lay waste to all Creation, and the Firmament itself will tremble beneath our feet, and now here's a quick look at my junk, okay let's go'."

Sam sat down heavily on his bed. "I can only be grateful you were never called in to choreograph the Apocalypse."

"It's a plausible explanation, little bro. You need to get laid, Sam."

Sam dropped his head into his hands. "Why is it that every time something freaky happens, you interpret it as a sign that I need to get laid?"

"It's a God-granted talent," Dean said airily. "Big brother knows best."

"Right now, the only thing I'm interested in sleeping with is my pillow." Sam climbed into bed, and pulled the covers up.

The promptly slid themselves down.

"What the…?" he grabbed a handful of blanket, yanking the covers up to his chin. The minute he let go, they slithered to the end of the bed.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," he groaned. He glared at Dean. "Don't you say a fucking word," he growled.

"Not a peep, bro, not a peep," sniggered Dean, crawling into his own bed.

Sam wrapped himself in his ducky blanket, and eventually fell asleep. After a trying day, the warm fluffiness was strangely comforting.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"Nearly ready to go, bro," Sam called to his brother early the next morning. He was packing his bag with one hand, and holding his jeans up with the other. "I'm just gonna call Bobby, tell him we're just a few hours away…"

He was interrupted by a scream from the bathroom.

Sagging pants forgotten, he had his gun in his hand and burst through the bathroom door before the scream ended.

"Dean!" he looked around for the threat, but all he saw was Dean, wearing a towel and a startled expression…

"Sam," his big brother rasped, clutching at his towel, "The most awful thing just happened…"

As he spoke the Awful Thing happened again.

Sam wasn't sure where to look.

The only explanation that suggested itself was that Dean – or at least his towel – was being possessed by Marilyn Monroe...

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><p>Reviews are the Soft Fluffy Ducky Blankets on the Bed Of Life!<p> 


	3. Public Service Announcement ZOMG! ! !

**PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT**

Please be advised that Chaonea (a recently emerged Lurker, whom we would be glad to welcome as a Denizen of the Jimiverse, as we are glad to welcome all lurkers - let us all take our places, and perform the Dance Of Welcome!) has produced a *$^ING AWESOME piece of fan art for this story, at Deviant art. It has been prepared at astonishingly high speed (I suspect her of TARDIS-jacking, in fact), and conveys just how unhappy Sam is about having to wear a blanket. With duckies on it.

httpCOLONSLASHSLASH scorrokinDOTdeviantartDOT comSLASHartSLASHSam-W-Does-Not-Like-Duckies-214676074

_OMGWTFBBQ!_

And now, I'm afraid that I must go and roll around on the floor laughing hysterically again for a bit. Holy crap, he looks so miserable...

This may delay the progress of this story somewhat, as I keep wanting to look at it again, and that makes me start laughing again, and it all goes downhill from there...

Fan art is loved! I think I may be developing a new habit; we can blame Leahelisabeth and Bartlebead for their AWESUM drawings of the gargoyles Tiem and Zan from 'We'll Wing It'.

I think now I will have to find a blanket for Dean...


	4. Chapter 3

As suggested by aeicha, bunnies it is...

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><p><strong>Chapter 3<strong>

"What the hell…?" Sam gaped in confusion as Dean let out a little shriek.

"I don't know!" his older brother said, wild-eyed, "I was just drying myself off, and trying to decide whether I need to shave, and it started to…aaaaagh!" He clutched at the front of his towel; the rest of it billowed up around him.

"Oh, God," Sam averted his eyes and looked down at the floor. "Er, I don't see any vents in the floor, and it doesn't feel like there's a draft here…"

"That's easy for you to say!" wailed Dean as his towel waved gracefully about him in some undetectable air current.

"You look kind of like Marilyn Monroe, in 'The Seven-Year Itch," Sam noted offhandedly.

"That's very flattering, Sam," Dean ground out between clenched teeth. "I was thinking Kelly LeBrock in 'The Woman In Red', but I'll take what I can get. At least I'm not Gene Wilder."

"No, your legs are much nicer than his would've been, I'm sure," chortled Sam. He quickly swallowed the laugh when Dean scowled at him.

"This is not funny in the least, Sam," he rumbled dangerously. The menacing effect was somewhat spoiled by the fact he had a pale apricot towel wafting up around his ears, as though a pet jellyfish had been waiting patiently all day and was now enthusiastically welcoming its merman home from his hard day at the shipwreck. "My damned towel keeps trying to escape!"

"Okay, well, set it free – if it comes back to you, it's yours forever, if it doesn't, it was never yours to start with," suggested Sam, provoking an even more impressive scowl.

"I'd wipe that grin off your face, if I could spare a hand for just a second…"

"No, really, you're not having any luck with the towel," explained Sam, "Why don't you just leave it, and get dressed. Don't look at me like that, I have no interest on perving at you!"

"Glad to hear it," muttered Dean. "All right, I'll come out and get dressed. You will wait by your bed. Looking at the wall."

"This from the man who has worn his shorts on his head whilst singing praises to the Gods Of Whisky and demanding that I join in," tutted Sam. He dodged out of the bathroom, narrowly avoiding the end of a flicked towel.

He heard Dean stomp across the room to his own bed, muttering deadly imprecations against the Fates, who clearly had nothing to do with their lives except sit around and devise ever more annoying ways to piss him off. "When I find out what's causing this," Dean told him, "I am going to find out whose fault it is, because I won't feel better until I've killed somethiiEEEEEEK!"

"Dean!" Sam whipped around the moment he heard his brother start to shriek. Dean was in the process of falling heavily to the carpet, where he landed flat on his back, feet in the air, gasping for breath. His jeans whipped themselves off his legs, and fluttered gently down onto the bed. Sam rushed to his side, helping him sit up.

"Just breathe, bro, you're just winded," he reassured, as Dean gasped and wheezed, as much from moral and sartorial outrage as from having all the air knocked out of his lungs.

"Fu… fu… fu… " he gasped, "Fu… fucking… pants… possessed!"

"I don't know if they are," argued Sam, but Dean was insistent. They tried throwing salt, holy water and a handful of iron shot onto the jumping jeans, to no effect. The EMF meter didn't pick anything up. "I think it must be you."

"Crap," said Dean, staggering to his feet and deploying Dean Winchester Coping Mechanism Number One: If I Don't Like It I'll Pretend It Isn't Happening. "They probably just need washing. Like yours. I'll just get dressed, and we can get gooooOOOOOOH!" The pair of sweatpants Dean had tried to don did the same thing, yanking his feet out from under him and sailing up off his legs while he fell to the floor again.

"I… really… hate… that," he panted, glaring at the truculent trousers.

"I don't think it's possession," reiterated Sam, "I think we should get to Bobby's, see what he thinks."

"Right." Dean looked around, then headed for Sam's bag. "I'll just have to wear one of your oversized capable-of-covering-a-moose shirts, and pretend it's a tunic, but I suppose nobody will seeEEEEEEEP!" The shirt flung itself vigorously off him before he even had a chance to pull it down.

"I don't think it's going to work, bro," Sam told him.

"I can't drive without a shirt and pants!" complained Dean, "What if we get pulled over? What if someone calls the cops? People get arrested for driving around without enough clothes on!"

"Well, we'll just have to head for Bobby's, avoiding doing anything that might attract attention, and not stop until we get there," Sam shrugged.

"Sam, I cannot drive like this!" Dean was adamant.

"Okay, okay," Sam told him, "We'll just have to improvise… I have an idea."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"I hate your idea," grumbled Dean, sounding petulant. "Your idea totally sucks."

"Well, you were right," Sam pointed out, "People don't think to donate blankets when it's not very cold, and that was all they had that was big enough."

"I don't like it," insisted Dean. Nonetheless, he huddled deeper into his cherry pink blanket. It had a motif of happy bunnies having tea parties. "Even The Hoff groping a tiger would be better than this."

They drove in silence for a while until Sam frowned at the dash. "Gas is getting low," he observed, "We'd better pull over, fill up."

Dean groaned. "Nooooo," he pleaded to an uncaring universe, "No, I am not getting out of the car!"

"That's what I said yesterday, and look how much attention you paid to me," Sam told him, just a small amount of smugness creeping into his tone.

"Well, you can pump the gas, I'm staying here," grumped Dean.

"Dude, is your bottom lip sticking out?" asked San.

"No, this is my expression of resolute, manly determination," Dean clarified.

"Oh, you mean a pout."

"Bitch."

They pulled into a gas station, Dean keeping up a running monologue of complaint while issuing demands for coffee and donuts. Sam started the gas pump, hooking the filler cap into the pump trigger, and headed off to deal with the catering.

"And see if they have pie!" Dean called after him. "And M&Ms!" He retreated into his bunny tea-party blanket, listening to the gas pump tick over…

A minute or so later, a gushing noise alerted him that something was wrong. He opened the door, and peered out; the smell of gas was overwhelming.

"Aw, hell," he groused, grabbing his blanket and scrambling for the pump. A faulty cut-out switch was sending fuel spurting back out of the tank, to run down the Impala's paintwork and fender. He shut the pump off, replaced the cap, grabbed the water can to rinse the spilled gas away, then turned to the store.

"What are you staring at?" he barked at the matronly lady at the next pump, as he gathered his blanket about him like a determined Roman tribune girding himself with his toga in preparation before going to face down a hostile Senate.

Somebody's negligence had threatened his Baby's well-being. Dean was not happy. His eyes narrowed as he made a beeline for the store.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"Okay, that's two coffees, the donuts, the M&Ms, the Doritos, and pump number… er, is he with you?" Sam looked up, and followed the cashier's line of sight. Dean, his expression promising murder and his blanket flapping around his knees, was striding towards them.

"Yeah, yeah, he's with me," answered Sam, taking in the general ambiance of 'Somebody Will Die Today' that Dean was broadcasting in the megawatt range.

"Er, is he… okay?" asked the cashier. "He looks a bit… um…"

Sam waved a hand airily. "Oh, he's fine," he smiled, "He has… Doingo Syndrome. It's a condition that affect the, er, skin, and it means he can't always wear regular clothes. And it, it affects the brain, too. Mood swings. But he's okay, he's on medication for it."

"He looks kind of angry," ventured the cashier. Sam hoped it wasn't a panic alarm that the man's hand was straying to.

"No, no, he's not angry," Sam assured him, "He's just a bit… intense. He's a pussycat, really, I mean, he picked out his own blanket and everything. You can't make snap judgements about someone because they have an, um, illness. He's a lot better on the new meds. It's been more than a fortnight since he tried to chew through his restraints at night…"

The door banged open. Hurricane Dean (mechanical, petrochemical and financial outrage blowing at Force Eight with forecasts of gusts up to Force Nine in the immediate future) whirled in.

"Just how long have you been running a faulty pump with no cut-out on it?" he demanded, hitching his blanket more firmly into place. "My Baby got covered in gas!"

"Your… baby?" asked the cashier, looking bewildered.

"Yes! It went all over her! I washed off what I could, but where do you get off, letting people use faulty equipment?" Dean began to wave his arms around, then stopped, and grabbed at his blanket. Behind him, Sam semaphored 'Just humour him' to the cashier.

"Er, I'm sorry," the man stumbled, "I'll, er, put an out of order notice on it..."

"You better," growled Dean. "That could really have done some damage to her. AND to my wallet. You usually go around, charging people for gas that your stupid broken pumps spills? Huh? That your standard business practice? What else do you do, water down the coffee? Or put coffee in the water – because I'm pretty sure that whatever was in that water can was closer to coffee than what your damned machines squirt out. What next? I'll bet this chain is a major share holder in the company that makes the machines that puts more air than snack food in bags of corn chips! You got a nerve, pal." Dean was starting to sound a bit shrill; clearly, the whole self-removing clothes thing, and the morning's episode of rebellious raiment, was taking a toll on his nerves.

"Er, look, why don't we just, um, get going," suggested Sam as calmly as he could.

"Yeah, yeah," the cashier nodded vigorously, "Why don't you just, just go with him, and, and, and drive away. No charge for the gas or stuff, just, um, leave." He looked back to Sam. "Should he maybe take some pills or something?"

"That's an excellent idea," trilled Sam, "Come on, big bro, time for your medication, we don't want a relapse."

"What? What? I'm not taking any damned medication!" stormed Dean.

"It's one of the symptoms of Doingo Syndrome," Sam explained wistfully to the bemused cashier as Dean squawked in inarticulate ire. "An inability to recognise his own illness, or that anything is even wrong. Come on," Sam seized his brother's arm, cheerfully telling him, "We'd better get you back, or Matron won't sign you a day pass again for weeks."

"Jesus, Sam, what the fuck have you been smoking?" demanded Dean as his brother shepherded him back out the door, giving the cashier a quick thumbs up.

"Just get in the car, Dean," sighed Sam, shoving their provisions in after him.

"I'm doin' it, I'm doin' it," grumbled Dean, "Don't push me around!"

"Sorry, Dean."

"I am entirely capable of getting into the car by myself!"

"Yes, Dean."

"Just because my clothes won't stay on doesn't mean my brain has stopped working!"

"Yes, Dean."

"I'm still entitled to a minimum of autonomy and dignity, Sam, even if I'm being afflicted by some occult wardrobe malfunction."

"Yes, Dean."

"Good. And Sam?"

"Yes, Dean?"

"Don't touch my blankie again."

Sam rolled his eyes, and started the engine. The trip to Bobby's suddenly seemed like it was going to take a lot longer.

* * *

><p>Which would be the more intriguing mental picturefan art, the Marilyn Monroe towel, or the bunny blankie? Share you thoughts, Denizens of the Jimiverse! We do seem to have a surfeit of Deangirls in here, compared to Samgirls. And definitely compared to Bobbywimmen. (Assorted Lurkers, Visitors and Casual Passers-Through are also welcome to vote).


	5. Chapter 4

**PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT**

Ladeez and any gennlemen, management is pleased to inform you that Chaonea has been At It Again.

Should you care to direct your web browser to httpCOLONSLASHSLASH scorrokinDOT deviantartDOT com/#/d3jvxg4 , you will find a picture of Dean being horrified by an overly skittish towel. We suggest that you allow yourself at least ten minutes for rolling about, screaming with laughter, because the expression of utterly bewildered horror on the bloke's face is _priceless_. (This also confirms that she has stolen a TARDIS and is using it to produce fan art in astonishingly short time frames - just to let you know, when she is arrested for theft of a time-travelling vehicle, I will personally arrange to take up a collection to bail her out, and I'm sure that all Denizens of the Jimiverse would like to contribute).

Now, onwards and upwards! (Unless you're Sam's towel, in which case that will be onwards and downwards)

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 4<strong>

"Slow down! You'll get us pulled over!" snapped Dean, squirming and slouching lower into his blanket.

"Ten minutes ago you were telling me to drive faster!" replied Sam in exasperation.

"That's because when we drove through that town, people were looking at us," grumped Dean, wiggling and adjusting his blanket. "They were looking at us, Sam. Pointing. Pointing and laughing. A grandmother in leopard-skin leggings and a midriff top with 'MILF' on it pointed and laughed. A man in a Snuggie pointed and laughed. A large woman who was possibly actually a hippo with lipstick on wearing Daisy Dukes and some gaffer tape, it looked like, pointed and laughed. A guy with his pants practically around his knees pointed and laughed, and then all his friends with their pants practically around their knees pointed and laughed! People who are too stupid to hitch their pants up laughed at us, Sam!"

"Yeah, well, laugh back at 'em. At least we know how silly we look. They're more to be pitied than scorned."

"An orange woman laughed at us!" Dean was mortified, wriggling again, whether in discomfort or outrage wasn't clear. "She was orange, Sam! Glow-in-the-dark orange! The colour of Fanta! The colour of Doritos! The colour of a safety vest! The colour of a carrot cake with plutonium icing!"

"Plutonium isn't orange," interrupted Sam. "It's a sort of silvery grey, if it's in its pure metallic form. Although it does make colours in solution, depending in its oxidation state, and what the anion is – Plutonium dioxide gives a kind of orangey solution, but..."

"All right, all right, she was as orange as a carrot cake with plutonium dioxide with the right anion icing!" fumed Dean with another twitch. "The point is, Sam, the point_ is_, a woman who looked like Snooki laughed at us!" He twitched again.

"Well, we probably do look kinda, you know, weird," sighed Sam. "Be realistic. Two grown men, one wrapped in a ducky blanket, one wrapped in a bunny blanket. If it wasn't us and you saw it, you'd laugh, too. Have you got worms or something? You need me to stop?"

"No, I do not need you to stop," Dean spoke through clenched teeth, and kept wiggling. "What I need, is for us to get to Bobby's, so we can figure out what the fuck is going on, and I can wear something more substantial than a pair of boxers and a pink blanket with bunnies on it. Who the fuck came up with the idea of rabbits having a tea party, anyway? This blanket was made by someone who was totally high!"

"Well," Sam mused, "Lewis Carroll did write the March Hare as being present at the Mad Hatter's tea party, so there is a literary precedent for leporids being depicted drinking tea..."

"You know, one day, Sam, you're going to meet a nice encyclopaedia, and the two of you will find out you have so much in common, you'll fall in love, and before you know it, you'll be married and have a whole brood of little handbooks and dictionaries..." Dean's predictions about Sam's future domestic situation were interrupted as he started to writhe in earnest. "Aaaargh, something's really wrong, that's really uncomfortable, it's likeEEEEEEEEP!"

Dean's boxers suddenly shot out from under his blanket, and blew out the window.

"Um," began Sam, "Was that what I think it was?"

"Yes, Sam," replied Dean with a calm of the type that is found in the eye of a F5 tornado, "That was exactly what you think it was. I am now sitting here, wearing nothing but a pink bunny blanket and a pissed-off expression."

Sam couldn't help himself. "You know, Chuck will be really freaked out about having to write that," he chuckled.

"Don't you dare laugh!" scowled Dean, "Just because you still have your pants on, don't you dare laugh at me!"

"Hey, I barely have my pants on," Sam pointed out, "They keep falling to half mast every time I stand up. I think they might even be trying to fall down now, while I'm sitting here and driving. In fact..." he broke off, a strange expression on his face. "Oh. Er. EroooOOOOOh, er, oh, shit, oh shit, ohshitohshit..."

The wheels squealed as Sam hit the brakes and pulled off the road. Dean watched in confusion as his brother threw open the door, leapt out of the car, and began to dance a hornpipe. Dean followed in bemusement.

"Oooh! Argh! AAARGH!" yodelled Sam, jumping up and down, his legs twitching.

"Dude, are you... krumping?" asked Dean incredulously.

"Not on purpose!" yelped Sam desperately, "It's not me, it's myyyeeeeAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!"

Suddenly, Sam's legs shot out from under him as Dean's had done – his pants yanked themselves skywards, off his legs, and he ended up falling flat on his back, blanket akimbo and feet in the air...

"Oh, Jesus fucking Christ, Sam!" Dean shrieked and clamped his eyes shut and spun away, "Oh, fuck me, that's a view of you I haven't had since you were a toddler and trying to kick me while I changed your diaper!"

Sam's jeans and boxers drifted gently back down to earth.

"OhGodohGodohGod," moaned Dean, "What has been seen cannot be unseen..."

Sam scrambled to his feet, face the colour of a tomato, and wrapped his ducky blanket around himself. "Oh God," he muttered, "Oh God, I've just been pantsed by my own pants, there is no word for how wrong that is..." He stood, apparently in shock, for a few moments, then gathered up his clothes. "I feel... naked," he almost wailed.

"That, Sam, is because you _are_ naked," sighed Dean. "_We_ are naked. Underneath our nauseatingly cute blankets, we are buck naked." He stomped grimly back towards the car. "Come on. I'll drive. It'll give me something to do besides freak out and gibber incoherently." He stomped back towards the car.

Sam slid into shot gun, clutching his blanket more tightly around himself. "There's a draft," he whined.

"I'll swap you a draft for the image of the Grand Canyon now burned into my retinas," snapped Dean. "I cannot begin to describe exactly how traumatised I am. I am so traumatised, Dr Phil could not help me."

Sam fished his phone out of his tearaway trousers. "Bobby?" he began uncertainly, "It's Sam. Um, there's been another kind of, er, development with our problem..."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

They arrived at Bobby's yard just on dark. He could tell that they were shell-shocked by the way they barely bickered as they left the car and approached the house, exchanging only one half-hearted 'bitch/jerk' call and response. Sam had wound his blanket around himself so tightly that Bobby wasn't sure how his legs had enough room to walk. Dean was wrapped up in his like an old peasant grandmother, as though he were trying to disappear into it entirely.

"So, Babushka and Pocahontas," Bobby greeted them, only to be met by two pairs of resentful eyes.

" 'S not funny," muttered Dean, managing to convey the chill and gloomy pessimism of the windblown steppe in just a couple of syllables.

"What he said," echoed Sam, hitching his blanket up.

"Well, actually, technically, it could theoretically be regarded as droll. From a certain point of view," opined Bobby.

"Yes, it could," Dean conceded, "From a certain sadistic, cruel, voyeuristic, unfeeling, inhumane and creepily pervy point of view, I can see that a total asshole might possibly find our situation to be somewhat amusing."

"The draft is back again," grizzled Sam.

They moved to the living room, where Bobby explained what he'd already done.

"Since you first called, I've been doing some reading," he told them, "And I gotta tell ya, this isn't like anything I've ever come across before. It's clearly some sort of spell or curse, but if you're sure you haven't done anything to piss off a witch recently..."

"We're sure," Dean affirmed, "We haven't dealt with a witch for months."

"Well, it would help if we could work out the motivation behind this. Who would want to do this?"

"Who would want to humiliate us? Render us unable to put clothes on? Leave us unable to wear anything except adorably sweet fluffy blankies? Hmmmm, let me think, oh, yes, for a start, only every demon we've ever encountered, thwarted, burned, sent back to Hell or otherwise pissed off. So, that narrows it down to, what, no more than a few thousand..."

"No, this isn't a demon," said Sam, "They don't go in for pranks, they go in for physical torture, mental torment and existential anguish."

Dean gave his brother A Look. "Sam, being reduced to wearing nothing but a fluffy blanket and a smile, I'd say that constitutes torture, torment, and enough existential anguish to keep a whole busload of emos going for a year." He shuddered. "And if we're going to talk about mental torment, let me just say that a diaper shot of your gigantic adult overgrown Sasquatch ass sets a new standard in scoop-out-my-own-brain-through-my-nose-with-a-rusty-spoon-to-make-it-stop moments."

"No, he's right," cut in Bobby. "Not something actually evil. Not nasty enough."

Sam swallowed, and looked stricken. "You don't think this reeks of, um, Trickster?" he ventured.

"No," grumped Dean, "If it was Gabriel, he'd be unable to stay away. He'd totally want a look, up close and personal, although he might regret it if he had to look at your ass."

"Yeah, and I guess anybody who has anything against us would go for something less drafty, but a lot more deadly," Sam conceded.

"Exactly," agreed Bobby, "Which leads me to think that we might be dealing with something kind of recent, new. The question is," he posed, "Who wants your clothes to tear themselves off you?"

"Well, we'd have to start with every woman I've ever met," smirked Dean, unable to help himself even under the circumstances, "And a lot I haven't, so that narrows it down to at least several thousand..."

"Wait a minute." Sam absently adjusted his blanket; his expression indicated that he was Thinking About Something. "Women you haven't met. Wanting to perve on you. On both of us." He frowned – the hamster that Dean often visualised running in Sam's head had obviously popped a couple of amphetamines and was holding a private rave party in the wheel. "Could this... could this possibly be connected to... fangirls?"

Dean looked dubiously at Sam. "You mean, those strange people who read Chuck's stories?"

"Or maybe the ones who write their own," continued Sam. "Some of them are kind of, well, obsessed. And given free rein, they do write things worse than, er, spontaneous nudity. The prosecution presents Exhibit A, aka Becky." A thought suddenly occurred to him. "Oh, God, no, you don't think... they really are obsessive, you don't think one of them actually managed to do a spell or something?"

Bobby stroked his beard. "It's highly unlikely anyone outside of the business would be able to construct a spell from scratch, even if they've combed Chuck's stories for details," he pointed out. "I guess maybe somebody could've done it unintentionally – it's happened before, people foolin' around with things they don't understand. It's a long shot, but it might be a place to start."

"Right. Let's get the laptops, and we'll see if we can find anything." Sam and Dean stood up. As Sam stood up, his blanket stood down, while Dean's tried determinedly to billow up around his ears. They both let out little yelps, and readjusted their blanketage.

"Aint nobody here to see you, boys," Bobby pointed out mildly, heading for the kitchen.

"You're here," Dean argued.

"You aint got nothin' I haven't seen before," the old Hunter reasoned equably. "We're all boys here, and anyway, who do you think chased the two of you around the house after The Great Bath Escape of '85?"

"That was different," Sam muttered, "We were kids!"

"I've got two things to say. One, stop bein' so precious, we'll figure this out. And two, don't flatter yourselves, 'cause I aint interested in lookin' at what you're showin'," drawled Bobby, resuming his mission to brew coffee.

Sam sighed. "I guess at least it's not cold. Except for that draft."

"That's probably the Venturi effect, making the wind whistle between your ginormous ass cheeks," muttered Dean.

"Dude, you're obsessed with my ass! Stop it!" demanded Sam.

"You're the one who insisted on showing it to me!" countered Dean, "It's not my fault that image has been branded onto my cerebellum!"

"Visual cortex," corrected Sam. "The bit of your brain that deals with sight is the visual cortex, in the occipital lobe. It sits above the cerebellum, which is actually a distinct structure, distal to the cerebrum."

Dean sighed. "Why the culprit couldn't arrange to have your brain spontaneously leap out of your head too, I don't know. Probably that would be too merciful." He headed for the kitchen. "I need something stronger than coffee. Something to dissolve the neurons in my visual cortex."

"Ethanol won't actually dissolve your neurons," Sam corrected him, starting up his laptop, "Wernicke's encephalopathy is a manifestation of the effects of vitamin B1 deficiency, often associated with alcoholism. It affects metabolism of astrocytes, not neurons, and they're not strictly speaking 'brain cells' because they are found in the spinal cord too and they perform a kind of support function for neurons..."

"Great. Great. Good to see that the draft isn't chilling your own brain, not slowing down metabolic activity in the Insufferable Smartass cortex," grumped Dean. "I swear, one day the world will end, and we'll all be running for higher ground screaming "Help help help the killer tidal wave is coming run for your lives," and you'll be standing there, lecturing: "Actually, the correct term is a 'tsunami', and in fact more of us will die from the ultramegagargantuHurricane than the wave, so you might as well stop running because you'll only die tired."

"That would make it a storm surge rather than a tsunami," muttered Sam, frowning thoughtfully at the screen.

"I rest my case, Your Honour." Dean followed Bobby. "I'll just go make some support cells vitamin B deficient with a storm surge of alcohol to my visual cortex. Unless Bobby has some mindbleach. You just get on with planning your wedding. If I'm your best man, do I have to wear a dust jacket? Are you going to have bookmarks as bomboniere? Ooh, ooh, since you're marrying a book, you'll be able to have... page boys!"

"Jerk."

* * *

><p>Reviews are the Warm Fluffy Astrocytes wrapped around the Neurons Of Life. With a motif of duckies printed on their membranes.<p> 


	6. Chapter 5

I can only reiterate what I've said before: the Denizens of the Jimiverse are a strange and depraved bunch...

If anybody is having trouble seeing Chaonea's fanart depiction of Dean and his Marilyn Monroe towel, you may have to log in to DeviantArt to unset the Adult Content filter. (Getting an account is very easy, and you can chose the designation 'Lurker'.) COMPLETELY worth the couple of minutes it takes, to see his utterly shell-shocked expression. Go on, you know you want to...

'Krumping' is a style of dance in which the dancer looks like they have biting ants crawling up their trousers. It seemed the most likely interpretation for the movements a tall man would make whilst his pants tore themselves off him.

You know, I've never even seen an episode of 'Jersey Shore', and I want to hunt them down and kill them...

But now, we return you to your program of G.W.N.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 5<strong>

_It was the happiest day of his life._

_Brittanica looked breathtaking in her hardbinding – he could not take his eyes off her indices while Reverend Thesaurus droned his way through the service._

"_Do you, Samuel Winchester, take Brittanica to be your lawful wedded encyclopaedia, to have and to hold, to get and to grasp, to catch and to clutch, to receive and retain, to find and to fondle, to corner and to cuddle, to possess and to press, to secure and to squeeze, to procure and to pat..."_

_It was, everybody would later agree, a lovely wedding. Sam was pleased to see Bobby and Dean enjoying the occasion: Bobby was deep in conversation with a first edition of Alighieri's 'The Divine Comedy' (which was flipping its bookmark at him in a decidedly come-hither gesture) and Dean was getting up close and personal with a reprint of the pop-up Kama Sutra..._

_They were just sitting down to the delicious-looking Wedding Salad when one of the page boys - his nephew now, he realised - giggling with glee, shot across the dance floor, flapping his dust jacket - *flap-flap-flap* - with an irate-looking dictionary (his sister-in-law) chasing after him._

"_Hee hee hee!" *flap-flap-flap*_

"_Come back here! Get back here! Jesus Christ, get the fuck back here!"_

_*Flap-flap-flap...*_

Sam woke to the sound of his brother swearing. That, of itself, wasn't unusual.

He also woke up to the sight of his brother just having had a shower. That wasn't completely unusual, either.

However, he didn't ever recall waking up to his naked brother running up and down the hall dripping wet and chasing a towel that flapped along just above head height - _*flap-flap-flap*_ - like a playful terry-towelling pterodactyl.

Sam recoiled, groaning. He did not need to see this...

"Don't just stand there, Samantha," demanded Dean, "Grab the damned thing!"

With a small distressed keening noise, Sam snatched the towel out of the air on its next swoop past their bedroom door.

"Dean, what the fuck?" was all his sleep-fogged brain could manage.

Dean grabbed the towel back from him. "Damned thing made a break for it the minute I started trying to dry myself off," he growled, glaring at the towel, which cheerfully attempted lift-off again as he wrestled it around his waist.

Sam adjusted his blanket. "If there's any mindbleach left over from last night, I'd like some now."

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

Dean eventually managed to dry himself enough to don his blanket, opting for a late Roman Empire casual toga after a hard day repelling the barbarians look rather than the gloomy Russian grandmother styling of the day before. Sam was sticking with the tried and true bug-in-a-rug look, ever-vigilant for unwelcome drafts.

The research effort reconvened in Bobby's living room after breakfast. It was slow, laborious and at times traumatising going: 'Supernatural' fansites included discussion forums, fanfics, fanart and some role-playing threads that bordered on disturbing. Somehow, the Winchesters managed to avoid having Bobby find any fanfics pairing him up with Crowley, because if this was a fan thing, they'd need the internet to find it; having Bobby drop the occult equivalent of a nuke on half the servers in North America would not help matters.

"I gotta tell ya," he confided as he trawled through a discussion that had run for six months, debating the significance of his hats without reaching any conclusions, "Some of these people are a bit, well, loopy seems a good word for it."

"I suppose it's keeping them off the streets, if nothing else," Dean sighed. "Imagine what sort of havoc people like that could cause if they actually banded together with a common purpose. It could be the end of life as we know it."

"I think I've found some who have banded together," mused Sam. "I'm sending you the link."

"L.E.W.D.: Loving Explicit Winchester Descriptions," read Bobby. "An action group dedicated to the G.W.N. movement."

"G.W.N.?" asked Dean.

"Gratuitous Winchester Nudity," Bobby elaborated, reading further. "Apparently, this is an online community that campaigns for more explicity written adult content to be included in Carver Edlund's writing."

"Yeah," confirmed Sam, "As far as I can make it out, they're a group who are unhappy about the way that Chuck writes about, er, intimate situations, or, um, states of undress, in his 'Supernatural' stories."

"Hey, I didn't know they were going to online content," Dean followed a link. "You can subscribe to get a live feed of his work as it's written, kind of real time." He frowned. "I should subscribe to that," he mused, "All the times I've wondered what the hell was happening with my life, and now I can find out on the internet..."

"Well, they want a more adult content style of writing," summarised Sam, scanning the screen. "More graphic exposition and descriptions of, um, us. It's the basis of their manifesto. 'Dean has screwed his way back and forth across the country for nearly two decades. RoboSam spend his days hunting, heaving and humping – it's time we had some real descriptions! If Great Aunt Muriel doesn't like it, she doesn't have to read it. We demand an end to all strategically positioned towels, bedclothes, and boxers!'."

"There's an online petition, and a form letter you can send to the 'Supernatural' publishing website," noted Dean.

"What's this?" muttered Sam, clicking yet another link, " 'Campaign Of The Month. Join our Singing Strategy!'."

"A what?" chorused Dean and Bobby.

"It says 'Singing Strategy'. Hold on... oh, okay, apparently, somebody has written a song. Members of L.E.W.D. have been videoing themselves singing it, and, er, sending it to Chuck's online publisher." He scanned the details. "The campaign kicked off just a few days ago... and they've had... holy crap, they've had thousands of people join in!" He followed another link. "Wow, they actually managed to crash a server with their submissions. 'Today we crashed the server; we're aiming to crash the stories! Keep up the good work, fellow L.E.W.D.-ers!'.". He looked up. "If it started a few days ago, then given a lag time to get it going, might there actually be something to this?"

"It might be," mused Bobby. "They're hoping to influence Chuck's writing, so they're bombarding him with requests to see more skin. They don't know that Chuck only writes what he sees, so to speak – if they are inadvertently managing some sort of Winchester nudity charm, it could be backfirin', and giving Chuck something to, er, look at, in accordance with their requests." He looked back at the page. "They do seem to be pretty... demanding."

"So, how the hell did a group of people manage to do this over the internet?" asked Dean.

"There's only one way to find out," Sam told him. "There's instructions for how to participate in the Singing Strategy: 'Follow this link to learn... The G.W.N. Song!'."

Dean gulped. "Oh God," he moaned, "I really don't think I want to hear this..."

Sam clicked the link.

It was a jaunty march tune, being played quite competently on the piano. The lyrics appeared on the screen to facilitate learning the song.

G.W.N.! G.W.N.!  
>Gratuitous Winchester Nudityyyyyyy!<br>Working on the car, or heading for a bar,  
>The Samgirls and the Deangirls all agreeeeeee,<p>

While kicking demon butt, we'd like to see some smut,  
>O pay attention to our heartfelt pleeeeeeeea,<br>Chasing down a ghoul? Let's have a no-shirt rule!  
>Oh, give us some Winchester nudityyyyyyyyy!<p>

We know they do the deed, you really must concede  
>That Dean, he does it very frequentlyyyyyyy,<br>While Sam does not, perhaps, as much as other chaps,  
>But when he does we really love to squeeeeee,<p>

Yet every time they do hook up and follow through,  
>A sheet is always placed strategicallyyyyyyyy,<br>Okay, we've seen some chest; we want to see the rest!  
>Oh, give us some Winchester nudityyyyyyyyy!<p>

We just don't give a damn if soulless RoboSam  
>Had no compassion for humanityyyyyyyyy.<br>When he was with the whore, we wanted to see more:  
>His jeans were barely fighting gravityyyyyyyyyy.<p>

Now we will pout and scowl, until he drops the towel,  
>We know just what we really want to seeeeeeeeee -<br>We'll campaign and we'll push, to see that gorgeous tush,  
>Oh give us some Winchester nudityyyyyyyyyyy!<p>

Now Dean's a ladies' man, and any time he can,  
>He likes to find some female companyyyyyyyyy,<br>He does the deed with feeling, dangling from the ceiling,  
>In a car, or spa, or up a treeeeeee,<p>

But every time he does, the stories hedge and fuzz,  
>And hint about it euphemisticallyyyyyyyyy,<br>We want what Dean has got – we want to see the lot!  
>Oh give us some Winchester nudityyyyyyyyy!<p>

Yes, giiiive – uuuuus –soooome – Wiiiiin – cheeeee – steeeer – nuuuu – diiiiiiit – yyyyyyyyyyy!

They sat in stunned silence as the last 'Ta-dah!' chord died away.

"That," Dean said finally, "That, is just... it's just...just..."

"Yeah," agreed Sam. It is."

Bobby clicked and followed links. "We need to see exactly what happened with this," he said.

"No, we don't," said Sam quickly, huddling into his blanket, "We really, really totally don't..."

L.E.W.D. had members and sympathisers all over the world.

Three twenty-somethings giggled their way through the song. "G.W.N.! G.W.N.!"

A matronly lady at an expensive desk. "Gratuitous Winchester Nudityyyyyyy!"

A group of office girls, obviously out for drinks, recording on a mobile phone. "Working on the car, or heading for a bar..."

A woman in surgical scrubs. "The Samgirls and the Deangirls all agree..."

Two grandmotherly types in cardigans. "While kicking demon butt, we'd like to see some smut..."

A woman in a formal gown and wearing a horned helmet, who was operatically trained. "O pay attention to our heartfelt pleeeeeeeea, la-la-la-la-la-la-la-laaaaaaaaaa!"

A girl in a wheelchair, clutching a bunch of balloons. "Chasing down a ghoul? Let's have a no-shirt rule!"

Half a dozen men in football uniforms, holding a sign saying 'Our Girlfriends Are Making Us Do This'. "Oh give us some Winchester nudityyyyyyy!"

Sam clutched his hands to his head. "Make it stop!" he moaned, rocking back and forth, "Make it stop!"

It got worse.

"G.W.N.! G.W.N.!  
>Donnez-nous Winchester nudityyyyyy!<br>Dans leur voiture grande, ou quand ils devient ronds,  
>Les Samfilles et les Deanfilles toutes disent 'Ouiiiiiii…"<p>

"G.W.N.! G.W.N.!  
>Watashi-tachi kore wa hoshiiiiiiiiiiiii!..."<p>

"Well, I guess that means I can't roll my eyes and say 'Only in America'," observed Bobby philosophically.

Dean just stared uncomprehending at the laptop in front of him. "How?" he finally asked in a distant voice, "Just... how? How the hell have a bunch of crazed fangirls..."

"And their footballer boyfriends," noted Sam.

"Yeah, and their footballer boyfriends, and their fucking grandmothers, from the look of it... how the fuck did they manage to cast any sort of spell?"

"Well, spell-casting is a funny thing," Bobby theorised, "It started off with women. Women are the socialisers, the networkers, the organisers. Why do you think witches so often work in covens? It's the origins of the concept of the power of Sisterhood. Witches were doin' it a long time before nuns, Simone de Beauvoir, or Germaine Greer. The internet gives these people a sort of networking and connectivity unheard of before. The wording is important, the scansion, the tone… think of the wording of truly great speeches and liturgies. The Rite or Exorcism, for example. Sonorous, dignified, imposing. This is pretty assertive, musical, confidently expressed, and, well, to be honest, a bit humourous. I'm thinking it's entirely possible that they've managed to work a spell."

"Don't fuck with the Sisterhood," sighed Sam gloomily, slouching deeper into his blanket.

"Oh, God." Dean's face drained of colour. "So, what the hell do we do?"

"We gotta find the original one, the first one that was released into the wild, so to speak," Bobby said. "It could be important. Give us some clues as to how it got rolling, and how to undo it." He cast a sympathetic glance at the horrified Winchesters, snuggling into their blankets. "If you don't want to sit in front of a screen trawling YouTube for wimmen demanding that you down trou, I'll handle this. If someone will go make me some coffee."

"I'm on it," trilled Dean, practically bolting for the kitchen.

"Sam, you can help by goin' through my study, pull out all the books on herb lore, and the use of personal items in the occult," Bobby went on. "If somebody has set something off without realising it, they've probably done it with nothing but ordinary household items."

"I'm on it," Sam rose, clutching his blanket. "You know, I'm starting to see why children find these so reassuring." He paused. "Bobby, if there is some sort of spell making our clothes tear themselves off, why are we able to wear our, er, blankies?"

Bobby rolled his eyes. "It's so unlikely, the unwitting spell-casters probably never even imagined it, so the spell doesn't recognise blankies as 'clothes'. Let's face it, anybody who would write or read about two grown men getting' nekkid, and walkin' around in fluffy blankets, would probably live where the doors lock from the outside, and Nurse brings the meds every morning."

"Yeah, you're probably right," mused Sam. He headed for Bobby's study, grateful that some things were too weird for even fangirls to imagine.

He was not amused when he returned twenty minutes later, and caught Bobby quietly singing the Japanese version of The G.W.N. Song under his breath.

* * *

><p>The really disturbing thing is that once I started writing the song, I could hear the tune playing as I wrote...<p>

Reviews are the Horned Helmets on the Opera Singers of Life!


	7. Chapter 6

**COMMUNITY SINGING ANNOUNCEMENT COMMUNITY SINGING ANNOUNCEMENT COMMUNITY SINGING ANNOUNCEMENT**

_OMGWTFBBQ!_

*Runs around in circles flapping hands up and down like Zan trying to demonstrate flying to Sam in 'Piening For The Ones We Can't Save'*

YEEHEEEEEEEEEEEE!

*runs around some more*

Our own Denizen of the Jimiverse, Leahelisabeth, has set The G.W.N. Song to music! You can see her video on YouTube: just tack the signifier watch?v=jHwOghkX5mc onto the end of the YouTube address. Don't forget to leave a comment; she really has quite a lovely voice. I has teh jealous. The tune she set it to is amazingly similar to the one that played in my head while I was writing it. (No, anonymouse, it really doesn't work to the Mickey Mouse Club song...)

The whole address is: httpCOLONSLASHSLASH wwwDOT youtubeDOT com/watch?v=jHwOghkX5mc (It's unlisted, so you can't search for it in YouTube, you have to have the link. But now you do. Ta-dah!)

The Ladeez of the Denizens are such talented individuals, they draw, they sing, they do the Dance Of Welcome... I think that we should take aeicha's comment for our motto: "Denizens of the Jimiverse - we may be depraved, but we get shit done."

Um, you lot do get that it's just a joke, right? It's just a story? Singing the song won't really make their clothes fly off? I don't do Twitter, or obsessive cyberstalking, but I do consult Superwiki occasionally - if in the near future it comes to my attention that J1 or J2 tweeted 'Holy crap pants just jumped off my legs and towel flew away WTF?' I will be asking _pointed questions_ here...

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 6<strong>

"Mornin' Augustus and Minnie Haha," said Bobby as Dean and Sam wandered into the kitchen. "You slept late."

"It's all that towel-wrangling," Dean told him. "It exhausts a man."

"That, and constantly having to hold your blanket up, and keep watch for drafts," added Sam, "This blanket-wearing thing is mentally draining." They quickly exchanged a sheepish look - there was no way either of them was going to admit to ANYBODY that they had slept well because they was so comfortable, due to the blankets in fact being warm and soft and snuggly, once you got past the whole duckies or rabbits-drinking-tea thing.

"I see," ruminated Bobby, charitably not letting the alarm on his bullshit detector sound audibly. However, since he liked a giggle as much as anybody else, he casually told them, "I'll get a couple of spare blankets out for you while those ones have a wash today."

Both Winchesters looked up in alarm.

"What?" yelped Dean. "You can't wash our blankies, er, blankets!"

"Well, I didn't want to say anything," confided Bobby, "But you've been wearing them – and sleeping in them too – for a few days now."

"No!" said Sam. "I mean… what if they shrink?"

"Yeah, yeah," Dean nodded vigorously, "Blanket shrinkage would be a really bad thing. Especially for Gigantor. We do not want a repeat of the, er, diaper view incident."

"And what if… what if… what if your spare blankets are too, um, generic?" Sam theorised. "What if they're, you know, too ordinary, too plain? Not ludicrous enough to evade the spell? Like towels? We could end up chasing flapping blankets around the house."

"We should stick with what we know works," asserted Dean, clutching his blanket firmly.

"Yeah, you could be right," Bobby relented, stifling his grin as both Winchesters visibly relaxed. "Now, I think I have an angle on this whole G.W.N. spell."

After breakfast, he started his computer, and opened a YouTube clip.

_G.W.N., G.W.N., Gratuitous Winchester Nudity…_

"For fuck's sake, Bobby, mute that damned thing," growled Dean.

"Sorry," grinned Bobby, not looking that sorry at all. "But I think this one is the original clip that was posted first, by the person who wrote this little show tune, and possibly kick-started the whole thing." He pointed at the paused clip, where a thirty-something woman wearing a shirt emblazoned with the acronym 'L.E.W.D.' and a suggestive leer was launching into the song. "She's got two vases on her table here, which look like they have flowers of the genus _Salvia_," he pointed to them, "And a very peculiar looking paperweight. That's definitely a couple of tea-lights, and there's also an ornate, possibly antique, letter opener."

"Oh, God," groaned Sam, "She's set up an altar without even realising it."

"Uh-huh, and throw in the unusual necklace she's wearing, it looks like it could be some sort of amulet. She probably doesn't even know what she has. And to cap it off, we have the, er, choreography…"

The hand gestures the grinning woman made were somehow even more suggestive with the sound muted.

"So, there you have it," Bobby finished, shutting the window, "Some imagination, some Girl Power, a modicum of training in music, and a series of geometrical, botanical, ornamental and Terpsichorical coincidences…"

"The adjective is Terpsichorean," corrected Sam, "If you're using it to refer to anything inspired by Terpsichore, the muse regarded as pertaining to dance during the late Hellenistic Period…"

"The point is, Mr Funk & Wagnalls," frowned Bobby, "It's a series of coincidences that have… coincided, and resulted in the L.E.W.D.-ers actually managing to cast a spell."

"Leaving us doomed to bunnie blankiedom," sighed Dean.

"So, how do we undo it?" asked Sam.

Bobby stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Well, I've been thinkin' about that, and strictly speaking I don't think we can undo it as such..."

"What?" Dean was horrified. "I don't want to spend the rest of my life wrestling with towels and living in fear of looking at Sam's ass!"

Sam bristled. "Well I'm not too crazy about the idea of spending the rest of my life watching daily performances by The Amazing Naked Dean And His Performing Flying Linen, either," he humphed.

"I'll never be able to work on my car again," moaned Dean. "Naked is strictly for the inside of cars. Unless you're hot women doing a charity car wash."

"And I'll never be able to go into a library again," sighed Sam sadly, "Unless they're holding Native American History Week, and even then, cheerful duckies holding balloons are not an authentic textile motif."

"I won't be able to go to bars anymore," mused Dean unhappily. "If a place has a 'No shirt no shoes no entrance' policy, I sure as hell won't get in with a blanket. Even if it's freshly washed and ironed."

"A stylised duck per se, yes, symbolising clarity of thought in many native traditions, but not a duckie holding a balloon," Sam went on.

"Diners are out, even ordering drive-through will be difficult," Dean complained. "How do you hand over the money, and not let go of your blanket?"

"Balloons would be totally anachronistic – the use of inflated animal bladders as toys for children is plausible, but not perfectly spherical, brightly coloured modern balloons that are clearly made of modern latex rubber…" continued Sam.

"And strip clubs are absolutely out," Dean practically wailed. "I'd just look creepy! That totally sucks! No more strippers, no more pole dancers, no more lapdancing. Ever!"

"I suppose I could claim to be a descendant of the Guanche people of the Canary Islands," Sam went on, "Or one of the lighter-skinned tribal groups that Columbus and Cortez claimed to have encountered."

"Yeah, food and girls are going to be a problem… oh, no, I'll never be able to visit Hooters again!" Dean realised.

"Although the weaving of large blankets to use as cloaks is more associated with the Navajo, and other tribes of the Southwest," Sam debated with himself.

"How the hell we're supposed to Hunt buck naked I don't know," ranted Dean, "Unless we can find proof that crazed fangirls who enjoy the whole G.W.N. thing are in fact all possessed and therefore evil, in which case I am prepared to lure them with sex in order to gank them. The sacrifices I make for this job…"

"Dean, there really won't be any call to go ganking fangirls," Bobby told him firmly.

"Why not? They'd die happy. Which is more than they deserve, the evil, leering, depraved, lecherous, clothes-tearing-offing, weirdos suffering from nudity-phila…"

"I think the word you're looking for is 'omolagnia', arousal from nudity. or possibly 'iconolagny', arousal from pictures of nudity," Sam finally let the blanket thing go. " 'Gynonudomania', arousal from ripping clothes off other people, probably doesn't apply here, because they didn't realise that's what effect their petitions for more explicit writing would have…"

Bobby dropped his head into his hands, and briefly asked an uncaring universe what he'd done to deserve this.

"What I was _tryin'_ to say, before Dean started lamenting the loss of his playboy lifestyle and Sam started angsting over native cultural accuracy and terminology of Greek derivation, is that we probably can't undo it, BUT," he glared at them before they could start complaining about non-authentic ducks or overly strict dress codes again, "I think we might be able to counter it."

The Winchesters paused in their argument over terminology, and blinked at him.

"You think we can?" asked Sam, hope in his eyes.

"Yep, I think we can," Bobby affirmed.

"Great!' enthused Dean, "So, what do we have to do?"

"Well, I've been giving it some thought already," Bobby informed them, "And I think I can see what we have to do. I'm pretty sure I have everything here that we'll need. I just have to write the, er, spell, get the wording just right…"

"I can probably help with that," suggested Sam.

"… And pick the music," Bobby finished.

They both stared at him again. "Er, what music would that be?" asked Dean suspiciously. "We don't have to dance naked, do we? I am totally NOT dancing naked, Bobby!"

"No, no, no dancing required, naked or otherwise," Bobby assured him hastily.

"What about the nudity?" queried Sam, narrowing his eyes. "Nudity, partial or otherwise, bareness, nakedness, dishabille, state of undress, or any and all other exposure of skin?"

"None at all," Bobby answered, "In fact, we'll need to take a… conservative tone towards matters of dress. In fact, I'll have to set up some short-range wards, because you'll definitely need to wear clothing for this."

"So, no dancing, and must wear clothes. I like the sound of it already, and I got some good music," nodded Dean, satisfied.

"Weeeeeell, you may want to hold judgement on whether you like it until you hear what it will entail," Bobby warned.

"So, what do we have to do, then?" asked Sam warily.

Bobby told them.

"Aw, hell no!" shouted Dean. "I am NOT doing that! No way!"

"Well, we can spend a few more days trying to find something else," offered Bobby, "But if you wanna do that, I demand that you surrender your blankets for laundering."

Both Winchesters unthinkingly clutched their blankets more tightly around themselves.

"Look, Dean," began Sam, in his most reasonable tone, "If it will counter the spell and let us wear clothes again, it's worth it. I mean, on the grand scale of traumatising things we've done on a job, it's not that bad."

"Why does it have to involve humiliating ourselves?" Dean asked, a cross between a whine and a wail.

"I think you're over-reacting, in terms of how much, er, humiliation it will entail," commented Sam. "It could be worse. Remember that time we had to dance a grand waltz in that condemned music hall?"

"You made me be the girl," pouted Dean, "You made me put on a tiara. And you kept standing on my feet."

"Well I did tell you to let me lead… and remember the time we had to have a pretend tea party with that little girl's ghost?"

"_I _had to have a pretend tea party with that little girl's ghost," corrected Dean resentfully, "While you finished the salt and burn. She insisted that I wear a feather boa. AND put on some of her Mommy's lipstick," he added in an accusatory tone.

"Yeah, and the time we had to go undercover to catch that witch operating out of a day spa?"

"Ha! How could I forget?" Dean scowled. "What I want to know is, why did _you_ get to have the deluxe foot massage, while_ I_ got the leg wax…"

"Or the time you impersonated a male stripper, when we were dealing with the haunting in that club?"

Dean's eyes narrowed. "Just for the record," he rumbled dangerously, "I have _not_ forgotten, and I have _not_ forgiven, and you will never, _never_ be able to make it up to me…"

"Right, so my point is, we've done worse things than this before. I don't know about you, but I'm kind of looking forwards to being able to put actual clothes on again. And have them stay on, I mean."

Dean looked like he was contemplating murder, then relented. "All right," he groused, "I'll go along with this. But I reserve the right to be as pissed as hell about it."

"Acknowledged," agreed Bobby. "Now, we'll need to drag out some stuff, and if one of you knows something about ripping and cutting music electronically…"

"I can do that," Sam told him.

"Just nothing by Nine Inch Nails," muttered Dean mutinously, before he headed for the kitchen, presumably in search of beer.

"Actually, I had something classical in mind," Bobby said. He turned to Sam, who was starting up his laptop. "Who's Nine Inch Nails?"

"A band," Sam explained. "When Dean did his stripper gig, he did his, er, act to one of their songs."

"Oh." He cocked an eyebrow. "Was he any good at it?"

"I'm not claiming to be an expert in judging male stripping, but the crowd went wild. He made several hundred in tips."

"Hmmmm, beats me why the boy didn't enjoy it," shrugged Bobby. "I've heard about them hen nights, and women's parties, where they get male strippers. I'd have thought that Dean would be in his element, with a roomful of women drinkin' and screamin' and hollerin' and trying to grab his ass and making lewd suggestions."

"Yeah, that's what I thought, to start with," muttered Dean, as he returned and opened his beer.

"So what happened?" asked Bobby, genuinely curious.

Dean fixed his little brother with a glare that would melt iron. "Mostly, the fact that, right up until he pushed me out on stage, Gigantor the Total Assbutt let me assume that the audience would be female."

* * *

><p>Reviews are the Stripping Winchesters in the Haunted Club of Life...<p> 


	8. Chapter 7

So, we're nearly there, one chapter to go. If you're not familiar with the piece of music mentioned, you can find a version of it at: httpCOLONSLASHSLASH wwwDOT youtubeDOT com/watch?v=Qb_jQBgzU-I and chances are you'll recognise it the minute it starts.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 7<strong>

"If I never have to look at you with your hair in curlers again, it will be too soon," declared Dean.

"If I never have to look at you in a grandma wig again, ditto," Sam snarked back from behind him. "Hold still!" he demanded, "You'll tear your hairnet!"

"Explain to me again why I have to cross-dress to do this," whined Dean.

"It's not cross-dressing," Sam rolled his eyes in exasperation, "There's a long tradition of men playing female roles in theatre and opera, in the tradition of _en travesti_, it's where pantomime dame roles came from."

"Aha! You admit it! It's a travesty!" Dean smugly claimed victory.

"It means 'disguised', ya idjit," Bobby also rolled his eyes. "If this is going to work, we can't go all uptight Moral Majority Fun Police don't-even-think-about-it-with-the-lights-out-or-you'll-go-to-Hell, that won't work. We gotta use the same approach that L.E.W.D. did, we gotta be light-hearted about it, amuse and persuade."

"Come on, Dean," wheedled Sam mischievously, "With that bone structure and those lips and eyelashes, you could practically pass for female anyway…"

"Bitch. So, what's the tune?" asked Dean, scanning the printed page Bobby handed him.

"Mozart's Serenade No. 13 for strings in G major," replied Sam, cueing the track on the laptop. "I've edited it to give us a shortened version of the Allegro movement, retaining the repeating theme at the beginning and end."

"Allegro, mmmmmm, I love Italian food," mused Dean. "You're talking about some sort of pasta, right? Because otherwise, I have no frigging idea what you just said."

Sam stared at him. "Dean, even you must know it," he said incredulously. "And Mozart was from Salzburg, which technically made him Austrian by today's geopolitical borders, not Italian. Although at the time, it was part of the Holy Roman Empire, and that included the north of what is Italy today, Lombardy, Piedmont, as far south as Tuscany, but he spoke German, so..."

"Has anybody done a cover of it since the 80s?" Dean wanted to know.

Sam gawped at him. "Well, Muzak, possibly, or those sadistic assholes who program 'on hold' telephones with tinny noises that sound like a child's toy piano…"

"Well, I've never heard of it," declared Dean.

"Dean, it's one of the most widely recognisable classical pieces in the world!" Sam burst out.

"Not to me it isn't. 'Stairway to Heaven' is classic. 'White Room' is classic. 'Smoke on the Water' is classic. 'Paranoid' is classic. 'Highway to Hell' is THE classic. Mozart's spaghetti number thirteen?" He looked thoughtful. "Did you say something about G-strings?"

"_For_ strings, _in_ G major," scowled Sam with a good shot of Bitchface #11™ (I Am Appalled, Dean, I'm Pretty Sure One Of Us Was Actually Adopted). He started the music.

Dean smiled at the opening phrase. "Hey, I know this!" he chirped. "Dum! Da dum! Da dum da dum da dum! Dum-daaaaa, dee dee dee da-da-daaaaaa, dee dee dee da-da-daaaaaaa…"

"Good," said Bobby, coming back into the living room carrying a couple of boxes, "That'll make your rehearsals go more quickly."

They practised a few times while Bobby went searching for a couple of large boxes, then set up the wards in that would allow the Winchesters to don clothes in the living room for a short time.

"What's all that?" asked Dean, eyeing the boxes as he indulged in a bit of air conducting.

"Our costumes," Bobby told him, starting to pull things out of one box. "Okay, who wants the blue silk dupioni with Peter Pan collar?"

"I guess you'd better see what will fit Sasquatch first," commented Dean, gesturing to the violins for more vigour.

Bobby held up a pussybow blouse in a lovely green linen. "This might be wide enough."

Sam eyed it curiously. "Bobby, not that it's any of my business what you do on your days off, informed consenting adults and all that, but why do you have boxes of old lady clothes, and all this other stuff?"

"I once spent a fortnight playing the Widow Twankey in a production of 'Aladdin', while chasin' down an angry spirit haunting a theatre," Bobby replied, holding up the shirt to Sam.

Dean paused in the middle of waving his imaginary baton at the cellos. "Yeah? What happened?"

"During the intermission on the last night, I rescued the leading lady, found the remains and did the salt and burn, then received eight curtain calls, several bouquets, numerous autograph requests, some talent agency enquiries, three proposals for casual sex, one proposal of marriage, and the director practically demanded that I read for the part of the Wicked Stepmother for the company's pending UK tour with 'Cinderella'." He eyed the blouse critically. "I think we can do better," he muttered to himself, searching through the box, "A big ruffle like that doesn't really flatter a large chest…"

The Winchesters stared at him.

"Well?" asked Sam eventually.

"Well what?"

"Did you go?" Sam elaborated. "Did you go tour England as a pantomime dame?"

"Nah," said Bobby dismissively, finding another blouse, "I had to mind the yard. And there were my dogs to consider. And this young idjit called John Winchester turned up on the doorstep, and left his brats with me – pair of terrors, they were, I couldn't possibly have let him inflict them on anybody else…" He pulled a different blouse with a tasteful floral pattern out of the box. "Aha, now this, I think, will work for you, Sam."

Sam pulled on the blouse. "It's a bit tight in the arms," he noted, "And I don't think I can do up the neck."

"Never mind, we'll just pin it, and dress it up a bit with a fur stole," Bobby told him, pulling out something that looked like it had been peeled off a very old, very mangy and very dead raccoon. "Here, you put this on," he threw the blue silk at Dean.

"Nice," commented Sam, "It goes well with your eyes."

"You are this close to me hitting you with my handbag," growled Dean, fumbling with small fiddly buttons. "Do I get a dead skunk necklace, too?"

"No, you get something to dress up a plain blouse," answered Bobby, handing him a long string of fake pearls. "There's a matching brooch and pair of earrings with those."

"Just great," muttered Dean, as Sam helped him with the earrings. "Ow! Hey! Take it easy! I don't want gangrene of the earlobes!"

"Sorry," said Sam, adjusting his stole.

If Dean managed to stab Sam in the scalp a couple of times with the hair pins while he pinned the pillbox hat to his brother's hair, it was entirely accidental and in no way a small and petty revenge. At least, that's what he told himself every time Sam yelped.

"I must say, you two make the most wonderful pair of Ugly Sisters I've ever clapped eyes on," nodded Bobby approvingly as he pulled on the green blouse and adjusted the large bow.

"Are we ready now?" asked Dean plaintively, scratching at the iron-grey wig pulled into a severe bun. "This is itchy."

"Nearly," grinned Bobby. "All we have to do is decide which colour eye-shadow is really you."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

The email arrived in her Inbox when she got home from her church group meeting. It was a notification from one of the 'Supernatural' fan sites she visited regularly. A new submission had arrived in a thread she'd been following, concerning whether or not Carver Edlund should write more explicitly about nudity in his stories. She hoped it wouldn't happen. If it did, it would be bound to end up with a high classification on it, then she would absolutely not be able to read it. As it was, if her parents found out she was reading even made-up stories about occult things, they'd totally wig out. She shuddered, remembering how they'd reacted when she'd borrowed a Harry Potter book from the library, then a Terry Pratchett had gotten her grounded for three weeks with threats to pull her out of college…

It was a YouTube link. She clicked it. Text scrolled slowly up the screen.

**P.R.E.W.D.**

People Rejecting Explicit Winchester Descriptions

_presents_

A rejection of the L.E.W.D. campaign

for

more graphic writing

in

Carver Edlund's 'Supernatural' stories.

_starring_

Nanna Deanna

Grandma Samantha

_and_

Great-Aunty Robertina

The text cut to a living room.

Two guys dressed as stuffy old ladies – one had a wig in a bun, the other looked to have tight ringlets of his own hair sticking out from under a small severe pillbox hat – stood looking kind of sheepish under garish eye-shadow (hadn't that electric blue eye-shadow gone out in the 70s?) and hot pink lipstick. God knows where that blusher had come from, and the mascara was clearly extracted from used engine oil. Actually, she decided, they both looked kind of hot under the make-up…

She recognised the music as Mozart's 'Eine kleine Nachtmusik', and they began to sing. Their lyrics flashed up on the bottom of the screen.

"Smut, it's smut, it's smut and nothing but,  
>One's a moper, one's a real man-slut,<br>We've viewed the campaign run by L.E.W.D., we think it's far too crude, we think it's far too rude,  
>They ought to stop they ought to drop this quest for slop give it the chop!<p>

Beeeee-caaaaaause  
>Really, nobody, needs to see Winchester nudity<p>

Beeeee-cauuuuuuse  
>Really, nobody, needs to see Winchester nudity..."<p>

The music continued to play in the background as an older man with a beard, resplendent in a green linen pussybow blouse with and a towering red wig with a trucker's cap perched percariously on top of it, popped into screen.

"Hi there, 'Supernatural' readers!" he beamed, addressing the camera. "It's your Great-Aunty Robertina here, to talk to you about a campaign to get Carver Edlund to write outright smut into his stories." The young guys behind him gasped theatrically, and fluttered their fans in horrified agitation. "It just aint right, is it?" Behind him, the two guys shook their heads and frowned. "We all enjoy readin' Mr Ellund's 'Supernatural' stories, but we don't want to see 'em over-run with explicit descriptions." The two young guys shook their head even more vigorously, muttering "tut tut", "shocking," "shame" and other sotto vocce expressions of disapproval.

"We here at P.R.E.W.D. headquarters think that certain things should be left to the imagination. Like, for instance, Sam's tush, and Dean's… talents." The young guys tittered and giggled behind their fans. "And I gotta tell ya, Great-Aunty Robertina thoroughly approves of women with imagination…"

One of the young guys cleared his throat, stepped forward, and whispered to Great-Aunty Robertina. "Oh, yeah, Nanna Deanna also thoroughly approves of women with imagination." Nanna Deanna gave the camera a sunny smile and a thumbs up, while Grandma Samantha stared at him with a bitchface worthy of Sam Winchester…

"So, we think that anyone who wants to go imagining those two boys in detail should be free to do so, in their own heads or their own stories," Great-Aunty Robertina specified, "But that's not for everyone. We say no to L.E.W.D.! We say no to Gratuitous Winchester Nudity!"

In the background, the young guys chittered "Totally", "Absolutely," "Here here" and "You tell 'em, sister!", while applauding with their fans.

"We say, leave Mr Edlund to his own devices, and let him get on with writing the stories we love!" intoned Great-Aunty Robertina. "Say no to L.E.W.D.! Say yes to P.R.E.W.D.! Become a P.R.E.W.D. today!"

With that, he stepped back, and joined the two younger guys for a final verse as the main theme of the music resumed.

"Porn it's porn, we yawn and we pour scorn,  
>It's crass, no class, it's more than can be borne,<br>No-one should pester anyone to write about someone buck naked, that's not fun,  
>Such nasty vice is so not nice take our advice and just think twice,<p>

Beeeeee-caaaaaause  
>Really, nobody needs nudity described explicitly<p>

Beeeee-caaaaaaause  
>Really, nobody needs to read that kind of shit<p>

It's smut, it's smut, it's smut and nothing but,  
>It's smut, such smut, it makes us go 'tut tut',<br>It's smuuuuuuuuuut!"

The one in the blue blouse smiled brilliantly, and added an improvised 'Ta-daaaaah!' as the musical accompaniment faded.

The text resumed.

Agree with Great-Aunty Robertina?

Join **P.R.E.W.D.** today!

Pass this link on, then

_Make your own video!_

When she'd finished laughing, she replayed it again.

She sent it to a few friends from church group, and a couple from college, then watched it again, singing along to learn the song. She thought she might dress up too, to make her video, just for the fun of it. If she could sneak one of her grandmother's awful blouses, so much the better. She knew exactly which one she wanted, the horrible purple one with the awful ruffles down the front…

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"How long is this going to take?" grumbled Sam, poking at his breakfast. It was a rhetorical question, Bobby knew – they'd released their P.R.E.W.D. video into the wild a couple of days ago, and so far, any attempts at dressing by the Winchesters had resulted in boxers flinging themselves determinedly skywards (they had narrowly avoided another diaper view incident).

"Well, as near as I can figure it, it took the G.W.N. Song two days to reach critical mass," Bobby told him. "It was up to a million views on YouTube last night, and there are some other versions of it being posted. We'll just have to be patient."

"Yeah, I know," sighed Sam, sniffing at his blanket. "If things don't change soon, I think we really are going to have to launder the blankies, I mean, blankets." He looked at Bobby. "Do you have any wool wash?"

They were interrupted by a triumphant whoop, then the sound of Dean thundering down the stairs. He burst into the kitchen wearing a happy grin, and a towel.

"Look at me!" he yelled cheerfully, "I'm wearing a towel!" He waggled his towel-clad lower half in case they didn't understand. "And it's staying put!"

"It won't if you keep waggling like that," observed Bobby.

Sam jumped up, smiling. "This is great!" he grinned, "I gotta go try putting some clothes on."

A few minutes later, both Winchesters came back downstairs dressed.

"I'm wearing clothes!" Dean said brightly. "I gotta go outside and hug my car!"

"Look!" said Sam, waving his arms around, "I can wave my arms around!"

"Should come in mighty useful if you have to direct any traffic today," was Bobby's laid back response.

"Don't bust my bubble," Sam told him, heading outside, where Dean was indeed hugging the roof of the Impala.

"Idjits," Bobby muttered fondly to himself. He made his way upstairs, and retrieved the discarded blankets from the Winchesters' room. They were a bit fragrant; he took them down to the laundry, and put them in the machine on a gentle cycle with some eucalyptus wool wash.

Then, because he liked a giggle as much as anyone else, later that day when they noticed their blankies were gone, he told them that he'd thrown them in the trash, seeing as the Winchesters hated them so much - he let them search increasingly frantically through bags of garbage for a good fifteen minutes before he relented.

He redeemed himself in their eyes by not saying a thing when they used their blankies as bedspreads, and afterwards he always kept them clean and fresh and snuggly, ready for whenever the boys visited.

**The End**

* * *

><p>Done, it's done, that bloody fic is done,<br>Next I s'pose you'll want another one...

Yep, that's it for now, Denizens, until the next plot bunny comes along and whispers in my ear, or bites me on the arse... I really don't think a bunny describing Dean's stripping act is likely to come along any time soon, seeing as I am definitely in the P.R.E.W.D. camp with Great-Aunty Robertina. (I suspect, though, that the Nine Inch Nails song was either 'Closer' or 'Wish'.) Meanwhile, if anybody makes further fan art or videos, I'll put up an additional Public Service Announcement on this story. Until next the literary leporids land, tata.


End file.
